This I Believe.

I believe in food as a memory…

My fondest childhood memory is visiting my grandmother. “Nanny”, as I called her, was (and still is) my favorite person. I knew that whenever my sister and I visited, we would be treated to her warm comforts: sourdough bread lightly caressed with Irish butter and garden-grown vegetables dressed in a generous coating of olive oil. It was something so simple, and something I knew would always be waiting for me.  

That’s because my grandmother personified love in the kitchen.  

As someone with French and Italian heritage, cooking was written in her DNA. I have vivid memories of her old, tethered cookbook hanging in the last shelf in the cupboard; one she’d been using since her and my grandfather were first married. I watched her delicately flip through the pages until she found the recipe to satisfy our appetite. The joy of finding “the one” always made her smile. She would glance over its worn-out page and double check measurements, being as precise as possible. Watching her work with ingredients was like a dance; carefully choreographed to deliver the perfect culinary performance for her audience (us).

I also remember the last time she was in the kitchen.

In 2014, she was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. The prognosis was bleak: less than a year to live. I was utterly heartbroken, as was she. Along with cooking together, she lamented missing my future milestones – graduating college, getting married, and eventually having children. I would regularly plead with a higher power, repeating the same mantra: What will I do when she’s gone?

For the first few months of chemo, she acted like her normal self – and made sure I never left hungry. Although weaker, she simplified her cooking to my childhood favorite: peanut butter and honey sandwiches. I didn’t mind the least bit. For meals that required chopping and measuring, this became my job. Rather than having her individually cook alone, we were now a team – even as her cancer spread.   

During the last month of her life, cooking was no longer an option. During my final conversation with her, I remember bringing her a buttered pastry. Here, once again, we bonded (and cried) over the togetherness food can bring – even outside of the kitchen walls.  

It’s been almost six years since her passing, but her memory lives vividly through all of my new dishes. Whether I’m measuring ingredients for a recipe, sautéing vegetables in olive oil, or enjoying my unrivaled combination of peanut butter and honey sandwiches, she rests in the back of my mind. It’s of the utmost comfort to feel her “standing” next to me in the kitchen through these little moments.  

I think back to my prayer: What will I do when she’s gone? And now, the answer is clear: Cook in the kitchen.